Writing Challenge ~ July 2014

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ JULY 2014​

After the amazing response to June’s prompts, it’s time for a new challenge! This challenge will run for the whole month and hopefully we’ll be treated to some more wonderful things to read!
And so, without further ado, here are your prompts.


You can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images, or use them in their entirety.

As there are several prompts you can of course chose to use all of them in one piece or write one for each…again, it’s your writing, your challenge. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for this challenge is 2,000 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Comment and Review Thread

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Thursday 31st July 2014, with August’s challenge hopefully going live shortly after!

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

On a bend in the estuary, hidden by silt and time and endless sun, sits the man. Let us move closer. Let us examine him, like the fossil he begins to resemble, and see if we cannot chip some truth from his gnarled hands.

The path towards him is narrow. It was designed to hold one person: a bespoke path, for there is no reason for any other to travel it. It leads nowhere save the sea. Its beginning is invisible, for it starts with the inside of a man's mind. And this man's mind is silvered, too, like the back of a mirror. When you look at him you see only your own reflection. All else is shielded by a wall that he has built all his life, as slowly and surely as the sea path.

The water is low here, so low that one could step off the path and come to no harm. It is so low that the sun fills it with bronze, so that it seems as if the path, in its muddy clay, is the haft of an enormous axe, crafted by a forgotten man from a long extinct tribe. Perhaps it is. But if the water is shallow enough to cross, why ford it? Only the man knows. And he does not speak. So we who follow must tread in his footsteps, and our shadow goes before us to warn him.

It is not silent. The gulls wheel and scream in their mad operatic overtures, waiting for Venus to emerge from the sea once again so they may worship her. But she never comes. And so they trace their sorrow in widening arcs against the purpling sky. Sometimes rain muffles the echoing cliffs, and the sea and its path seem enclosed in a bowl so clear its surface would ring like a bell to heaven. Mostly, though, and especially at night, the path to the sea is ringed with quiet. Only the apologetic shuffle of the man's fingers sculpting the lifeless clay into meaning sends shivers across the air.

We are closer now: close enough to see his horrifying stillness. His ancient fingers move in a timeless pattern, soothing and clawing at the muddy ground until it rises, tortured, into a little heap. Then the heap is flattened again with those ceaseless fingers, an inch at a time. One would think he is making his way not by volition but through erosion, and that his path is as impersonal as the fantastic shapes the water has carved in the limestone beyond the headland. And yet it is not impersonal. For there are the footprints; and there, always, in his own shadow, sits the man.

From afar he appears motionless. His back, hunched and massively still, seems as if it should be studded with barnacles. You could watch him all day - some, long ago in the first days of the path, did so - and see no movement at all. And yet now, when all the spectators greedy for novelty have faded away, here he sits, each year a little closer to the sea. There have been mighty storms over the years, swallowing great gulps of the coastline, or pouring whole beaches of new stone and sand from the unknowable ocean floor. Yet the path seems to rise above them, or slip through them. Hotels have fallen into the waves - great ships have been lost, but the path, like a little child lost in a crowd, slips through each season's storms unnoticed, and in its very fragility has assumed a certain permanence.

Once, the press came. They saw no point in the story, but the news was light that summer, and an eccentric is always good for a snide paragraph in the back of a paper. But he would not speak to them, turning his great mild eyes from one to the next in slow contemplation, before retuning to his endless work. One, enraged by this rebuke to his restlessness and feeling the insult to his second wife and sports car in every massive delineation of the man's face, pushed him deliberately off the path. But the man lay where he had fallen, and could not be moved again. Water seemed to seep into his mouth from the slow tide, and the reporter ran away, frightened. There was no story here, he told himself, and he did not look back until he had rounded the corner. But though no-one saw the man right himself, the next dawn saw him in his usual place, with the scars of his fall soothed and gentled by the water. Perhaps the sea had raised him again.

As we come still nearer, we see that the man is almost at the end of his journey. The path curves behind him like an extension of his body, and at the snake's head formed by his broad shoulders the sea, at last, lies benign and impassive. Still he does not look up. We reach his shoulder, and see those mechanical fingers searching blindly in front of him, trailing uselessly in the salt water. They are silvered with the shining drops he draws out of the sea, and in the dazzle of sun and water the hand seems younger: less twisted with age and loss.

Come closer still. Come here and crouch by him, so that your breath can sing in time with his, and shape the same air. Watch how the salted eyelashes blink, slow as sunset and as final. See the fingers curve through the air like the parabola of a net, to land as if by accident in the mouth. He is tasting the end now, as if to make sure of what his fingers could not believe. And now, O wonder of wonders, the man stands, and it is like rain in the desert or a child's first snow, and we step back in mute astonishment. For what is he doing, the man who forged a path to the sea?

He is turning, reader, turning as if he were a man with all the ordinary movements of a man. He moves with a slow, certain joy, as if he were coming into his inheritance and walking through the gates for the first time. He stands up, and the dirt and age falls from his strong body. For the sea has baptised him innocent of all sin. And one great leg passes before the other, and we poor watchers are brushed aside as the irrelevances we know ourselves to be. For we are here not to change, but to bear witness.

His movements are simple yet sure. He strides down the path to the sea, and the path holds him up. The sea divides around him, and he walks through it, and in the golden sunset the path and the water seem to merge so that his steps float in the giddy boundary between sky and sea. His back turned now from the sea, he walks on and on, until at last he reaches the level beach, where the gulls circle and a few determined children still build forlorn sandcastles, in defiance of their parents' cries and the encroaching tide. We have followed him to the beach, but dare approach no closer.

And he turns one more time, and though his face is too far and too shadowed to see his smile is unmistakeable. He is smiling at the ocean with such a confident joy: he smiles at that vast expanse as if he knew every unknowable inch of it, from the freezing depths crammed with monsters to the fringed shallows of a mangrove swamp far to the mythical south.

It is only when he turns for the very last time that we understand at last, and the thought brings us to our knees, as if in worship. The path was never a path to the sea at all. It was a path from the sea to the land. And only when that great task was done at last could the man step onto the land as if he were free, and stride away over the encircling hills, and come home, as few have ever come home. Soon, the setting sun hides him from our view, and we are alone again on the twilit beach.

On our knees now, at the fringe of the path, our fingers trail uselessly in the watery sand. Unbidden, we look down, and are unsurprised to see that the path has disappeared. Perhaps the sea took it back. Perhaps it was never there. Certainly all memory of the man is beginning to fade like the last tired sunlight of the day.

And so, without yet knowing why, we turn to the ocean, set our backs to the land: and begin to forge our own path, towards our own lost land. And far ahead in the gathering shadows, the midnight sea sings its endless lullaby.

Why was she so nervous? It was more than clear that she was. The fidgeting of fingers, the flitting of her eyes here and there, the rapid, shallow breaths, never mind the wild beating of her heart. And she hadn't even left yet. The car was packed. The apartment was empty. Yet she was pacing back and forth like a scared child.

"Calm down..." even her voice was quivering just a bit.. "Come on, just calm down"...

She'd been talking to him for what, a year now? More? Why would she be so nervous? She knew this was the right move. She had known it for the last 3 months. It was time. There was nothing for her here. Sure, she had friends. But no real "family" here. It was time..

Road Trip...

The words were scrawled across her calender.

Road Trip.

It was time.... July 1st. That had been the date they had mutually selected. No, wait, that was wrong. Why would she even think to lie to herself that way. That was completely wrong. It was not the date "they" had chosen. It was not the date that "she" had chosen. It was the date that "HE" had chosen. July 1st. Road Trip. Road trip to take her to... Him... He was several states away. She in upper state New York, He in South Carolina. 750 miles or so. 12 hours or more on the road. Alone. Driving. To meet .... Him....

She had met him online. Sounds cliche, doesn't it. But this was not a typical online meeting. No Match.com. No EHarmony. No dating sites at all. It was a online writing site. Where one could write and submit stories. Or even write in conjunction with another. She found it fascinating. And, she found it a way to excircise her stagnant imagination. And... it had been awhile... Oh sure, she online role-played. And even before that, she would play table-top gaming, and be writing stories by hand. Even as a child, she wrote short stories, or made up stories for her friends. All a way to excircise that vivid imagination of hers. So finding the site, was almost fated, she thought. It allowed her to let her mind run free, to explore those darkened crevices that tend to lay hidden, unless a light is shone upon them. And for her, the lights were flashing everywhere. Awakening her innermost creativity, and... her innermost desires. Desires that sometimes... scared even her.

He... had been the voice of reason when she finally found the real courage to voice those desires. Altho he had been reading her stories, and those very desires had been slithering within those writings since the very beginning. "You know it's part of you, pet" he had said over the phone. "It's a part of your soul. And that part of your soul, is now ... Mine"

She remembered that first night she had finally overcome her fear, or her cautiousness, yeah, that's what it was, cautiousness, and called him on the phone. The sound of his voice was almost consuming... Deep, resonate. And the tone, the tone had a command to it. The conversation did not take long to go from the usual topics, a movie watched, a day at work, to the much more intimate....

"Allow your fingers to just lightly play along your pussy lips, letting the tips get moist... yes... yes, that's right... pet..." His voice, followed by her deepening breathing, that low gasp that melted into a almost desperate moan "please" ...

Please was a word she would use often with him. First on the phone, followed by Skype. That had been another adventure, but one that had ended with her crying out for him, as she came... of course with his permission...

He was Dominant... in case, you as the reader, had not figured that out. She... had figured that out pretty early on. She was not an innocent by any means. Her role playing had taken on a definitive Dominant/submissive tone. Her stories did too. Her fantasies, let's just say there had always been a dominant edge to them as well, ever since she could remember.

Once the online chatting had evolved to phone calls... and the phone calls had evolved into Skyping... as evidenced above, she was caught. Caught in his.. web.. was what he liked to call it. He was fond of saying that. How many nights now, had she spent on her knees before that laptop screen. How long did it take before the "please" she would whisper, utter, moan... turned into begging... her voice trembling, her body shuddering, to cum, to be allowed to cum, for that sweet release. How many mornings had she woken up, clicked on that laptop, and saw his face, heard his voice, as the start to her day. How many days had it been in the last year...

"Mine"

Road Trip

The apartment door locked. The key dropped off at the management office. A friendly "good luck" from the maintenance man. He knew she was leaving, that she was moving. He had no clue where or with who. Not that it mattered to him. The apartment was already rented. All he had to do was clean it and it was all set. Another tenant... another face to him. He was friendly to everyone.

"Road Trip... Master"... she said outloud, using that word for the very first time, she saying this to herself, as if affirming in her own mind, that she were indeed on her way...

It was the point at the end of the universe.. at least for him it was. This was the end. There was no place solid left to step. No place left to go. He could never go back. Never. Not after what he had done. No, there was no place left that would ever accept him. He... was a monster.

It had been raining. Not just raining, but pouring. Those heavy tropical downpours that you get in the middle of summer. She had been standing there, at the bus stop, soaking wet. Soaked thru. Clothing clinging to her like a shimmery second skin...

She looked... exquisite.

"Go ahead. No one's watching"

Did he just say that? Or was it nothing more than that voice in his head. That voice that always tended to pipe up at these kinds of times. Meaning, when he was anywhere near a female, a woman. That same voice that had whispered in his ear that one morning, weeks ago, when he was at the library, using the computer there for his "research"... That same voice that had told him.. "Go ahead, follow her, no one's watching." And.. his voice had been absolutely correct. No one had been watching, as the girl, obviously a college student, doing research as well, got up from her chair, and made her way into the upper levels of the old building, where the reference books were kept. No one had been paying any attention when he also pushed back his chair and got to his feet, following behind her.

Gods, she was beautiful, he had absentmindedly thought to himself as he watched her ascend the stairs to the 3rd floor. With her long dark hair, the color of the finest mahogany, and perfectly rounded ass. He had seen her face, those sparkling green eyes.. and lightly pinkened lips... He had seen her body, the curve of her handful sized tits, the flat of her belly. But then again, in reality, he thought every girl he saw was beautiful.

What had her name been? Wait, he could remember. Donna. Her name had been Donna. He had asked her, as he cornered her there on the third floor of that ancient, old library. "What's your name, girl" was that even his voice? His hand was locked around her throat. She barely had enough air to breathe, let alone speak. But she did manage to whisper out her name... Donna...

"Go ahead, no one's watching"

Brutal. Vicious. His raping of Donna had been that and more. Her skirt pushed up, her panties ripped off. Top torn open. It had been easy to force her against that back wall, between the book-filled aisles. Her throat still locked within his grasp. He had worked out, every day, just to have the strength to do... exactly this. "See, it was worth it" the voice in his mind gleefully rasped, as he pulled his cock free from his jeans, shoving it deeply into her waiting pussy. His exhale of breath was shuddering as he felt the warmth of her embrace him, wrapping around his shaft like the warmest, yet wet, glove. He began thrusting, hard, deep, and fast. His face contorting, reddening, his cock seeming to grow. "Yeah that's right" that voice almost yelled in his head. "Fuck her... fuck her HARD"... When he finally exploded inside the sobbing, shaking girl, he was barely able to stand. Never mind her. Back and shoulders sore, even the skin was torn, from being driven over and over again into that hard, old, wooden, wall... the doctors had to dig out the deeply embedded splinters from her skin, her throat baring the deep colored bruises of his fingers, so deep that one parametic commented that he could almost see fingerprints. Her breasts both bore bite marks... and he didn't even remember doing that. She was so traumitized, that she didn't even speak for a week, and would never, ever, venture into a library again. She had lain there, after the rape, for hours, until the closing crew had found her and called the police and ambulance.

He.. was long since gone...

And, he was so darned average looking, and so harmless looking, that the librarian didn't remember anything about him, other than the fact that he wore glasses. The others that had been there, same thing..

It was the advantage of being a nerd.... and a not so attractive nerd to boot. Sure, he worked out. But no one ever paid attention to that. No one ever really saw him...

Well, Donna had seen him. But her description was so, non-descript. Other than the glasses, he could have been anyone. And, he was many many miles away now.

"Go ahead, no one's watching" That was what the voice always said before it happened.

She looked so exquisite standing there in the rain. So exquisite and so miserable. Soaking wet. His car was warm and dry. Funny, the song playing on the radio was "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by the Police... "Wet bus stop, she's waiting, his car warm and dry"...

"Go ahead, no one's watching"

No one was even driving down the street. The voice, as always, was right. She fought, she struggled, she even tried to scream. Hand over her mouth, a quick hit to the back of the head. She was quiet now. So very quiet. And so very beautiful. Her red hair dripping from the rain, pale skin wet, the hint of goosebumps from the chill of his air conditioning.

For 3 days, he amused himself with her. Let's face it, no one that beautiful would ever give him the time of day. No one like Donna, like Maria, like Linda, like Brianna, like Emily, like... "What's your name, girl" he demanded that first night, hand around her throat, she tied to the bed. "Kay" had been her barely heard answer. That made him laugh. "Every kiss begins with Kay" he giggled like a school boy. Sometimes he just cracked himself up. "Kay... Kay... Kay" he intoned... his hand leaving her throat, allowing her to breath. She didn't have much of a voice left to scream, she had screamed it into near silence... and it didn't matter. He had learned quickly that doing anything in public was much too dangerous. Here, in his secluded house, that was different. She was the third one to grace this bed. Brianna and Emily had been the first two. Both were now in coma's in the hospital. "Every kiss begins with Kay" he kept repeating as he grabbed her tits, pinching each nipple, twisting, watching it as it reddened, swelled... she groaning in pain... yet feeling that arousal. "Their bodies always betray what they really want" the voice reasoned. And it was right. It was always right. "I know what you want" he told her, as he lowered his head, lips finding the right nipple, nipping, biting, feeling her shudder, before he began suckling contentedly. First the right, then the left. He loved the feeling when suckling. It felt like home to him. He always started with that now. Every time, before anything else, he would pinch, bite, then suckle each nipple. By the time he moved on to whatever else he desired, and that tended to vary, the girl was usually a trembling, sobbing, yet highly aroused mess.

For Kay... for 3 days... he always began with her nipples. One time, he just straight up and fucked her, driving his thick, hard cock deep into her soaking wet pussy. She was almost always wet for him. They all were. Another time, it was fingers, two, then three, pushed inside her. He liked that, he could watch her face much more intently that way. Of course he used her mouth, the threat of pulling all her teeth out if she dared to bite down, enough to discourage any thought of that... Then there was late that 2nd night. He had raped her twice already that day, then, that night, bathed her. She was the first one he had kept for more than a day, she needed a good cleaning. What he noticed was that she smelled so.... good after being bathed. The soap scent was sweet and enticing on her skin. And the scent, was even more intoixcating around her pussy lips.

It was the first time he had ever eaten a woman. Ever licked a pussy. He started out almost ... plaintively. A light kiss along the inner thigh, a brush of his lips against the delicate surface of her feminine lips. She gasped in her breath, biting her lip, closing her eyes. "Please don't do this" she thought desperately to herself. It was so... intimate.... So very intimate... But stopping him would have been impossible at this point. He settled between her tightly tied, yet widely spread legs. It was as if he were examining her. Fingers opening those now moistening lips, the gentle probe of his tongue. Sweet... so sweet.... And he began.... Licking, long strokes of his tongue, deep into the crevasse of her pussy. He could feel the heat rising, the wetness increasing.. never mind her moaning.. and quivering... A glancing of this tongue over her swelling clit. She arched her hips from the bed, her breath catching.. The sensation racing thru her. "Oh I like that" he said to himself, and did it again... and again... tickling, caressing, even suckling her now swollen and sensative clit. "Ohhh goddd... ohhhh godd" was all she could cry, over and over again. She wanted it all to stop, yet he continued to feast on her, licking, suckling, pushing his tongue inside her, until she screamed as she came, the orgasm savagely shaking thru her. Her sweet cum was more than delicious to him and he eagerly drank every drop.

This was another routine he now added to his use of her. First the nipples, now, licking her pussy. Then, he would mount her and fuck her. The third day was spent, doing exactly that, as much as he could muster. He did need to "recharge" every now and then...

But unfortunately, during the one bathroom break he gave her each day, unchaining her to lead her to said bathroom, on that third day, she fought back. He hadn't meant to kill her. But when he slammed her into the wall, that sickening cracking sound told him he did something bad. Something really bad..

"It's ok, we'll find another" the voice promised.

Yes.. yes... another...

Would she taste as sweet as Kay?

"yes" the voice told him. "Of course she will"

But the police were closing in. He had thought he would get away with this forever. No one was watching. The voice had promised him. But when he grabbed Violet, his next girl, someone was watching. And they were closing in.

"Run" the voice told him. "You have to run"

So he had run. As fast and as far as he could. It was not far enough.

He was at the point at the end of the universe.. at least for him it was. This was the end. There was no place solid left to step. No place left to go. He could never go back. Never. Not after what he had done. No, there was no place left that would ever accept him. He... was a monster.

He stood on that tiny, narrow slip of land, looking back at the beach. It was beautiful here. Not quite as beautiful as the girls, but beautiful none the less. The water lapped at his feet. "If you step off, you will be safe" the voice told him. "So... take that step".... and as he did...

... the jolt of electricity tore thru his body. He shook violently, strapped to that chair. The witnesses watched, some turned away. But one, one watched and smiled. He had killed his daughter, his Kay. He had been waiting for this day... This day was the beginning of his.... universe now... the one without his daughter.

_____

"The tide's coming in."

He didn't blink. He didn't react visibly. But the reflection of the sunset in his eyes turned to little more than a shimmer. His lips parted and he exhaled, a long sigh of a breath, weighted heavily by the day's sorrow. The sky was beginning to turn that beautiful orange colour, tinged with red.

It was the colour of her hair. The colour that seemed to change with every way the light bathed it. His fingers twitched a little and for a moment the wind stirred through them, and he could almost feel the smooth strands of her thick hair between his fingers. He closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him. He imagined the way his hands would tangle in her hair, pulling her head back as his lips found hers, his teeth against her ear, his tongue against the side of her neck.

She smelled like all the things he remembered about his favourite time of year, that time when winter melts into spring and the grass is an impossible shade of green. She looked incredible in green. The way it hung across her body like seaweed, slipping through his fingers as he tried to catch her, coax her to him, like some kind of wild thing. The way it contrasted with that fiery hair and made him ache for her, ache to touch her, hold her.

But she was the wind, she was a water sprite, a nymph of the air, some kind of cruel twist of a fairytale that was always just a whisper away from his fingertips. She was an unattainable bird, never caged, never tamed.

He wasn't sure she was real. Not really real, at least. And if she was really real, she would never ...

...stay.

"Your feet..."

He moved infinitesimally. The sand had completely buried his feet, planting him there, at the end of the beach. At the beginning of the sea. He looked down at his legs, rising up out of the shifting paste. It wouldn't be enough, he thought, as the sea sent another wave around his skin, stirring the sand so he could feel the roughness on his legs.

She was like the sea. She would ebb and flow like the tide, one minute she was all around him, her cool skin bathing his lips, her soft mouth coaxing him so she could feel his roughness against her, all around her. She wore his kisses like sea shells, adorning her skin like diamonds; the touch of his fingers like the harsher kiss of the sun on her pale, late winter skin. At times, she would be the beach, lying underneath him for a spell, basking in his worship as he rose and fell above her, within her. Until she would push him away, like so many summer breezes. And he would go, like the waning tide, it's foamy fingers clinging to the sand as it drew back, and gone.

Mist would enshroud her, cling to her with it's clammy dew and she would shoo it away dismissively, running into it and away from it, her lilting laughter carried on the slightest wave of air to his ears, stirring his hair as he breathed in, that sweet smell of early morning springtime, always just beyond his fingertips. Never letting herself be touched, held, until she was a force of nature in his arms. Until she needed his touch, until he caught her, finally, and for the longest moment, she was real. Really real. He could feel her skin beneath his, her sunset hair spilling over and across the impossibly green grass. Away from the beach and the glistening sea, he made her stay. His hands never left her, the way she tasted like air and water, the way his kisses scorched her skin like sunburn, the way his fingers trailed across her body, leaving their wake like the fading purple sky at dusk.

"Your hands..."

The water had risen to his waist, his fingers trailing lazily, leaving tiny ripples in their wake. His fingers, that perfectly matched the purple marks on her thighs; that perfectly matched the purple marks on her shoulders; that perfectly matched the purple marks on her throat. She had felt like soft earth, the smell of her reminded him of all the beauty of summer, the soft, warm sand, the sunshine; her soft, urgent breathing when the clouds began to roll in, the cold summer rain falling and gently erasing their footprints in the sand.

He was anchored in her, like a ship in a storm he was steadfast and true. Even as she thrashed like a tempest beneath him, the thick chain binding his hull to the anchor cleaved through the waves of her depths. Like lightening, searing the sides of the ship, her fingers scratched at him, the waves rose, pulling him deeper, threatening to sink him entirely within the abyss. Her teeth, like stone he might find himself dashed against, marking his shoulder and the skin between his thumb and forefinger as he rocked against her upheaval, against her protestations flying at him like thunder. Her screams were gulls crying at the sea; her legs wrapped around him like seaweed; her hands, cold and clutching at his own as he held her neck...

It was as if sunlight burst through the clouds. Like dawn. He was blinded, blissfully and suddenly awake, the anchor lifting as the turmoil calmed. She lay there, still as the sea, cold as the sea. Her blue, blue eyes gazed up amidst her white face, white as the moon rising out of the purple finger-streaked sky that was her throat.

He should have known he couldn't keep her. He should have known he couldn't make her stay.

"Your eyes..."

The water was up over his shoulders now. Maybe this would be enough. Enough to wash it away...

She hadn't stayed. The husk that was left had no semblance of her in it. That sunset hair was dying embers, the smell of late winter and early spring was replaced by the rain and he carried her home, the water sprite, the nymph of the air. She had already begun to fade into mist in his hands, her hair carrying on the wind out past the impossibly green grass, out past the beach, out to the forgiving, vast blue.

And he had followed, naked as the day men first came from the surf in their pre-evolutionary splendour. And he waited for the tide to come in, for the forgiveness he knew she would give him. He waited, and waited, and waited. He was old, and tired, and grey. But that didn't matter. The sea had come, and it felt like her soft kisses on him, first on his feet, then rising up his legs, kissing and lapping up his chest, his neck, the corner of his mouth... Seaweed encircled him, that impossible green colour he had so often tried to catch. Just as his eyes opened under the water, the last rays of the setting sun scorched across the water, that fiery red colour, the colour of her hair all around him.

He closed his eyes, and felt her with him, her arms around him, no longer the weeds and the sea and the sunset, but her. In all her glory with her skin the colour of a pink pearl, hair of fire and eyes as translucent as the sea. She had come to forgive him, after all this time. His eyes opened, his lips parted and her sea swept into his every fibre with fury and darkness and the heavy weight of a thousand storms. Her forgiveness was terrible and endless and for the longest time he would suffer the taste of salt, feel the pressure of the water against his body, feel her fingers tearing his jaws open, searching inside him, forgiving him completely until there was nothing left but the soft, warm sand on the beach, and the cool, soothing water of the surf.

"You're really real..."

The breeze swirled across the waves and danced along the shoreline as it tumbled in on the water, creeping over the land and stirring the impossibly green grass before rising, twirling, scattering itself into mist.

Yet she would always be that whisper away from his fingertips.

And he would never stay.

How Far Does One Have to Run?

How far does one have to run to make it go away? How long is the journey that cleanses the soul and makes the heart sing anew? Is it a matter of distance or perspective? Is it as simple as finding a friend and hitting the road on a whim?

I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish that the things I was told as a child were true. I wish that the foundation upon which I built a life was more solid than the sand in the tide, but it’s not.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”​

Thomas Jefferson
7/4/1776
The Declaration of Independence of the United States of America.​

Grand words. Words that inspire, but when Corporation’s are granted “rights” and the very foundation of independence is being eroded beneath your feet, how is an average person supposed to survive?

You’ve checked all the boxes for success. You’ve bought into the dream, you’ve done everything right, but you are still at the mercy of the trixter. Murphy, Loki, Anansi and others of myth and lore all work against you every day. More often than not lately, they’re winning.

So which decision was it? Which one of a thousand decisions a day was it that put the odds in favor of the trixter? Was it the soup instead of the salad at lunch? Was it voting for one political party over another? Was it the time you told Google Maps, tough, I know a faster way? Not likely. None of those decisions matter in the great scheme of things. It was probably the decision you never thought could end badly that turned the tide. The sure bet. The locked down daily double that went south. That’s the decision you wish you could do over.

So, where does it end? How far do you have to run to turn the tide? Is there an escape? Will the system let you escape? Again, I don’t know. I wish I did. Perhaps sanity will make a comeback. Perhaps the world of the absurd will right itself to logic. I’m not holding my breath. What I am doing is everything I can to do right. To live the way I was brought up. To make good decisions for me and others that depend on me and hope it all works out. It’s all I can do. There is nothing else. Logic must have a place in the world. Compassion can not die. There must be a way to stem the tide, and even if I’m only bailing with a spoon, it’s one spoon at a time more than was done before.

So, how far does one have to run to make it go away?

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Note: This is a work of fiction. An exercise in creative writing.

500 Miles/Verdant/Road Trippin'

"And I would walk 500 miles", or so the songbirds sing. But in truth I'd travel worlds of burning sand with blistered feet to bring myself to your door. No matter the distance, no matter how foreign the shore. Your beauty is the sunset on a beach, a light with fleeting reach but no matter the distance, no matter how foreign the shore, I would walk, I would crawl, I would make it to your door. My footprints will be washed away in the tides but no size of wave could push me away from my goal. For even the tides recede and though the journey has caused me to bleed, my path to you will be all the more lovely for the crimson. And any road is paved with many hardships, many steps. But the most important is the first one.

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She sings in shades of green that no one knows the names of. She dances in the budding dawn and in the whimsy of the moonlight. She is a nymph, a sprite, a fairy; she's the spirit of the woods. She's beauty, grace, and mischief; she's evil and she's good. She's all the parts of springtime that bloom and sprout and grow. She's also Autumn's whisper, a remembrance in emerald glow. She's protector of the forest, she's the temptress of the trees. She'll lure you in as sure as sin and bring you to your knees. She's warden of flora and fauna, not a goddess but damn near close. And she sings in verdant hues, of love and doom, with names that nobody knows.

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The rubber meets the road and we're off. No more worry, just vacation. Miles and miles and miles of fields and streets and empty spaces. Truck stops with greasy spoons and motels with sleazy rooms and all the mem'ries made in them. We've got a destination but it changes daily. We sing along with radio tunes and can't maintain one station. But it doesn't matter because we've got each other. Whether one or two or ten, the numbers change but the feeling doesn't. When the rubber meets the road, we're off...and we might just keep on truckin'.

Parties were meant to be fun. A chance to enjoy the finer things in life, to let one’s hair down and let go. As he’d arrived it had the potential to be all of those things and more. A grand old house was the setting, with its own lake and ghost stories to boot. A stately home lit with candles and bedecked with fresh flowers, champagne flowing readily and soft music being played live somewhere in the rambling mansion floating through the air. It was one of those affairs that had a reputation and somehow he had found himself on the guest list. A client he’d impressed had been unable to go and so their invitation had been given to him. The promise of well-bred female company in pretty dresses hadn’t been too difficult to turn down and so he’d hired himself a tuxedo and booked a taxi out to the country estate. Dark hair swept back and blue eyes bright and excited as he walked in through the impressive entrance hall.

However, as the clock struck eleven, Andrew was bored stiff and felt if he had to watch another young, or more mature, woman make a drunken pass at him he might actually be sick. It had started well enough. Plenty of introductions made, the inner pocket of his jacket now brimming with business cards of those he’d met who had already heard of his expertise and who wanted that kind of skill to help them. A pretty face, or two, had caught his eye over the buffet table but up close they were was fake as the diamonds draped around their necks.

Deciding that to leave would probably do him more harm than good, the contacts he could make here could set him up for years, he’d decided to find somewhere to hide and then he could roll away home with the rest of the guests at a later hour and no one would know how much he’d hated it. Drink in hand he wandered through the house, tiptoeing past couples lost in each other’s eyes and arms, eventually finding himself outside. The house had a large amount of land attached to it, and some stunning gardens, or so said the website so he sat himself down on the steps leading down from the house and into a manicured rose garden. Sipping the bubbly while letting his keen eyes rove over the rather stunning scenery.

Maybe he should have brought a date. That might have helped ease the tediousness of it all. But…who would he bring? Late hours and unexpected calls from clients meant his social life was pretty non-existent. The last real relationship he’d had, in retrospect, hadn’t actually been all that real. Sure they went out together, slept together but…there had been no feeling behind it, no passion. It had been convenient for them both to have someone they could call but when the proverbial shit had hit the fan and it looked, terrifyingly, like his business might be in jeopardy, she had fled so fast it made his head spin. He’d rallied and overcome the hurdle and come out stronger on the other side, and he’d done it alone.

Perhaps that’s just how things had to be.

“I’m sorry to disturb you but,” A voice suddenly broke through his musing and made him look up. A young woman was stood at the foot of the steps wearing a long dress he would have said was the most vibrant green he’d ever seen, until he found her eyes.

It wasn’t until those same eyes sparkled with laughter at him that he realised he was staring and that she’d obviously said something he’d missed.

“Sorry, what?”

“I thought I’d lost you for a moment there. I said, have you seen any shoes lying around here? Ridiculous things were threatening to cut my feet to ribbons so I shed them but, now I can’t find them anywhere.” She laughed, the sound pleasant and warm. “The things we do to look good, eh?”

“Well, rest assured you look extremely good without them,” He grinned before wincing internally.

She smiled, a little bashfully, tucking a lock of long auburn hair behind her ear.

“You’re very kind to say so. But you should have seen me earlier!” One of those almost violently emerald hued eyes winked and she stepped back from him slightly. Pushing up onto her toes, imitating the position heels would have put her feet into, the long dress hung a little more gracefully from the swell of her hips, in turn emphasising the narrowness of her waist and drawing his eye irresistibly higher over her bust to her face where she had gathered her mane and twisted it back up into a loose chignon behind her. With her hair off her face he could see just how lovely she truly was. Her makeup was minimal, if indeed there at all, which only seemed to make her even lovelier. He could see the heart shape of her face, the plumpness of her lips. Lips he suddenly found himself fixated on, wondering if they were as soft as they looked.

The women inside had been dripping with diamonds and smothered in all manner of powders and creams and all it did was enhance their flaws. And yet here she was, barefoot, without a single gem and a ‘naked’ face and…well…he was finding it hard to think whenever she smiled at him.

Maybe it was the champagne.

Maybe it was those eyes.

She released her hair, sending the warm curling curtain bouncing back down around her shoulders and he sighed inside.

Maybe it was the hair.

“So, I take it from that that you haven’t.” She smiled again, quirking a delicately shaped brow.

“Hmm?” He was staring again. Damn it, she was going to think him simple or something if he didn’t buck up sharpish.

“My shoes?” She reminded gently.

“Yes!” He exclaimed, rising swiftly to his feet. His half-drunk flute of champagne left resting on the step. “No! I mean, I haven’t but…perhaps two pairs of eyes would find a pair of shoes quicker than one…?” It was an awfully cheesy line but thankfully she laughed and nodded

“I think you might well be right there.”

“Andrew.” He offered his hand as he walked down the few steps that remained between them.

“Verdana.” She took it, her hand small and smooth in his as she did so. She didn’t shake it though, she just held it, keeping it in hers as they started walking away from the house and towards the gardens. It felt good. Really good.

The gardens were silent, apart from the swishing brush of their feet against the grass. It was still relatively light too, despite the late hour.

“Where did you last have them?” He asked after a little while. Not wanting to break the quiet, or prompt her to let go of his hand, but feeling that one of them should say something.

“Near the fountain, I think.” She replied, tugging his hand slightly to change the direction of their stroll. “I was trying to escape the advances of a particularly lecherous young man who I believe is an Earl, or at the very least related to one. In his eyes station brings entitlement and apparently that includes me.” She made a rather disgusted face and he felt the shudder that accompanied it as it vibrated through her body and into his via her hand. “Despite my attempts to tell him otherwise he would not be disheartened and so I had to outrun him.” She giggled. “Shoes were a worthy sacrifice I feel, to keep my sanity and safety intact.”

“That’s horrible.” Andrew found himself battling an uncharacteristic urge to find the fellow in question and have a ‘quiet word’ of his own. “Sorry you had to deal with that but, I guess, well done for losing him.”

“Even in a dress like this, I’m not to be under estimated.” She laughed, her hand squeezing his for a moment. “But, I think I shed my shoes near the ornamental ponds. I hoped someone might have found them and returned them to the house but…no such luck. At least, not until my hunting found me a companion.”

Andrew’s cheeks warmed up a degree or two. He liked the sound of that.

Companion.

As they walked he stole glance at her whenever he could. He couldn’t quite place her age. At times she seemed unquestionably younger than him, he would have easily said she was in her late twenties. No more than thirty. But then, other times, her eyes seemed older. So much older.

“Come with me, Andrew, I know the way,” The path they were making led them through a small orchard, blossom sweet in the air but not as sweet as her lips. He wasn’t sure who started it, who moved who where, but soon their mouths were pressed against one another. Her chin tilted towards the branches above them and her arms twining around his neck. She tasted like marzipan and smelt like freesias and every touch of her skin against his shot bolts of excitement through his veins. Every achievement he’d made, every success, seemed to melt into the increasing darkness and into those eyes. Soon the bark of a larger tree was at her back and his hands were lifting the gossamer like material of her dress to find the heat beneath.

He didn’t do this. It was too fast. Too fast and too much and she felt and tasted far too good to resist. And so he didn’t. He pressed inside her with a need he hadn’t really acknowledged was there until he did so. Groaning against the crook of her neck he took her slowly and deeply, her whimpered sounds of pleasure driving him onwards until they both found their own personal heights that left them both shaking and leaning rather heavily against each other.

“I…I want you to know, I don’t…I don’t usually do this sort of thing.” His voice was huskier now, his heart still hammering deafening in his ears.

“Neither do I.” She whispered, kissing his lips softly. Somehow managing to calm his fears and yet stoke the heat within him all in one go. “But I know I want to again. Come? She slipped out from between him and the tree. Backing away, one hand outstretched. “Come with me, Andrew…?” As he stepped towards her she moved back a little quicker. Soon the pair were running. Giggling like children as he chased her through the trees.

“Catch me if you can!” She laughed, the chill of the mist making her voice seem that much warmer. Her dress fluttering out behind her like the wings of a butterfly. Tempting and fragile and fluttering ever more quickly out of reach.

He glanced back towards the house, lost now too in the mist it seemed and grinned. He never got to have an adventure, he was always helping others meet their own goals. And he had come to have fun after all.

“Come with me, Andrew…” She called, already out of sight when he looked back. Her voice suddenly sounding very far away.

“I’m coming!” He called, heading deeper into the grove. “Verdana, I’m here!”

He never knew how the party ended but then…he never really left.

The young man who no one at the party had known was never seen again.

The young man who had seemed so bored and uninterested in the party and his host. Even the house it was in, he’d left before the ghost stories had started. Perhaps if he’d stayed to listen he would have known what might happen out in the garden at night.

Perhaps he might have been saved. But then, who’s to say he wasn’t?
Two lonely hearts had found each other.

For it seemed the apparently infamous Lady in Green who walked the grounds, the tragic young woman who lost her love one summer’s evening and who had spent the last century looking for him, had found a companion at last.